In Lieu of Maturity and Understanding
by SSJL
Summary: The thing is… Bo's really, really sick of people making decisions for her.  Alternate "confrontation" scene from 2x07, Fae Gone Wild.  Spoilers through 2.07.


**A/N: First Lost Girl fic. :-O Just to be clear, I'm _glad_ Bo was mature and understanding in 2x07. I think she has some reason to be annoyed by the lack of honesty, but not terribly angry - after all, Lauren was never _her_ one and only, so she had no right or reason to expect to be Lauren's. At the same time, girlfriend's been through a lot in the heartbreak department lately and sometimes that makes you a little crazy. And also, the sadomasochist in me was just craving some more _fireworks_ from that ... I wrote them**.

**Sigh. Angry!sex. Why can't I quit you.**

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><p>Bo tries to be kind and understanding to people most of the time, provided they aren't trying to kill her. Patience comes a little harder, but she's been working on it and getting better. The thing is though… she's really, <em>really <em>sick of people making decisions for her. Decisions about what she's allowed to know about herself and her life and her relationships, decisions about what she can _handle. _It's infuriating. It's crazy-making.

That's why, despite the fact that she really does care for Lauren and wants to believe the best of her, despite the fact that Kenzi told Bo to _give her a chance, _and she may or may not have had the best intentions of doing so before she showed up here tonight –actually _seeing _Lauren ruins all of it. Because Lauren looks so innocent, so concerned, so lovely – all the things that had convinced Bo that she could trust her to begin with. Maybe even love her. All those pretty little lies, and Bo just doesn't know exactly what she has to do, to prove that she'd prefer the ugly truth.

Trick tells them they can have privacy in his "office" downstairs; gives the Ash's goon his word that Lauren's not going anywhere (the thug agrees, likely because these outings are as much field trips for him as they are for his charge, and he'll get a free drink or two out of the deal). Bo turns the lock, descends the stairs, faces Lauren in the dim light, and absolutely can't stomach her saying one more avoiding word.

"Nadia," Bo accuses, one word, one name that had changed everything, and Lauren's face registers pain and regret but not so much of surprise. She takes a protective step back like it's a primitive response, cowering from the predator; it puts her against the wall. She's been anticipating this, it's obvious, and that pisses Bo off too – that Lauren wouldn't have been honest, even when she _knew _it was all but inevitable Bo would find out the truth to the tune of the Morrigan's uncaring and knowing smirk.

Lauren says her name, says something about how it's not the way it seems, and Bo steps closer and puts a hand over her mouth because there is nothing that can be said right now, nothing that can take away the withholding and the secrecy. "Don't. Don't try."

Soft lips burn hot against Bo's hand. She tilts her head, trying to synthesize the jumble of what she feels… she wants Lauren to suffer, she wants to fuck her, she wants to steal her away and claim her, and cast her off and never see her again. She wants to list all Lauren's sins, make her hear them, make her _know them, _to hurt like Bo hurts.

In the moment, it feels a fine decision to do some amalgam of all these things.

She removes her hand, confident Lauren knows the score now. Runs her knuckles down the neckline of Lauren's shirt.

"You know, of all the people I've ever had sex with – and there have been a _lot _of them – I think this is the first time I've ever knowingly been 'the other woman'." She feels the cruelty in her smile. "Did it give you an extra thrill? Did you feel like a bad girl, screwing your slut on the side?"

Lauren's mouth opens again in defense, in instinct, and Bo can't, she just can't. "Shh. If you say anything, I swear I'll walk back out that door." She's aware of the unfairness of it, of asking questions and refusing answers, but figures that in this particular back-and-forth, she's earned her turn to be unfair. It's like a sad and perverse round of Simon Says: one where any response by the player might lead to ejection from the game.

"What I really don't get is why you didn't come clean once I told you about the Morrigan's offer. Am I _that _good that you'd postpone the chance to see your long-lost girlfriend, just for one more time with me?" Now Bo trails her hand down her own body. She feels her heart fluttering in her ribcage, the twitching of her own abdominal muscles. "Flattering." Her hand catches just for a second on the waistband of her pants, before wriggling its way inside.

She thrusts her fingers into her panties and is only a little surprised by how wet she already is. There's eroticism in aggression, she knows this; she also knows what Lauren can do, the way her body feels, and her betrayal doesn't quite suppress all the memories. They are standing so close that Bo knows Lauren can feel everything – the heat radiating from Bo's body, the brush of her hand working inside her pants until she pulls it out. It's gratifying to see the pink flush travel from Lauren's ears to her cheeks to her chest.

"Do I taste better than her?" Bo whispers, holding two glistening fingers to Lauren's face. That face is fighting between stricken and frustrated and impossibly hot for it. Lauren's tongue darts out to moisten her lips, and she's understandably frightened about doing the wrong thing.

Bo grants permission by touching Lauren's lips. Those fingers are sucked immediately into wet, velvety warmth, laved unreservedly by a thorough and clever tongue, and again, Bo is assaulted by involuntary reminiscence – that mouth on her breasts, teasing her nipples, following the length of her spine, tracing slow geometric shapes against her clit that grew less and less precise as Bo began bucking against it, demanding, begging for more and feeling Lauren smile against her flesh as she finally acquiesced to Bo's neediness.

Now, Lauren's suckling on her fingers like she can't get enough, her eyes pleading at the same time, and there's a hunger that rises up inside of Bo – familiar, aching, one that she's learned to resent for the unwanted course it forced her life into. At _this_ moment what's truly terrifying is how little she wants to control it. As she pulls her fingertips from Lauren's mouth, Bo looks at her and realizes if she kisses her now, she might not stop. She might pull from her, everything, feed until this thing that has been taken from her feels replaced. Before she'd start hating herself, being horrified, maybe, maybe for just a little she'll feel full and _satisfied._

Instead, she places a hand on Lauren's shoulder, applies a little pressure. There is no resistance; she sinks immediately to her knees, trembling hands fumbling against the button of Bo's pants. Bo watches her with morbid fascination, and it would be so easy to let Lauren do it, to _make _her do it. To take advantage of all this obvious regret and guilt and pull _some _pleasure from it, because God knows that this is the very best distraction, and she deserves something good right now.

Bo won't give her the satisfaction. With a low growl, she hauls Lauren up by the shoulders, ignoring her sound of surprise and reversing their positions so that Bo's the one on her knees. Lauren's pants have never been much of an obstacle for her and now is no different; there's no slow peeling from her body, no gentle inch-by-inch exploration of uncovered skin, but rather two hard yanks and a careless tossing aside and then Bo's face is pressed to the front of Lauren's simple cotton underwear.

"You'll remember this," she breathes against her. Lauren feels and smells hot, almost too hot, and all those not-so-distant memories are roiling now, driving Bo forward. She curls a finger into the crotch of those too-innocent panties. "You'll remember, and nothing else will ever seem good enough." And then she rips. Now she's more of a jerk than Lauren ever was, but it's what Bo had been aiming for anyway. So she simply heaves one milky white calf over her shoulder, buries her face into that scorching heat, and does what she does best.

She wonders if this is how Lauren felt the times they'd done this before – having a taste of something that couldn't be completely hers, something that the next night might leave her sheets cold and her heart wanting. This angry, careless coupling is as much punishment for Bo as it is for Lauren, and she greedily takes of their penances, refusing to be swayed by Lauren's whimpers, the thud of her head when she throws it back, rattling the strange artifacts that hang there. Bo tears the orgasm from her with ruthless thrusting fingers and pulling lips – and even then refuses to stop until it happens again, until Lauren's twitching and clasping uselessly at the cold wall behind her, Bo's name sounding like a sob when it rolls from her tongue.

It doesn't feel like enough, even with all that. As Bo rises back up Lauren's body on shaky legs and meets eyes that are as desperately wanting and hurting as her own. Bo kisses her then, helplessly, hopelessly, because she _needs _every touch and every flavor; her eyes glow dangerously and she takes a long drag, less than she could but more than she should. Lauren sags into her, pliant but still almost painfully responsive, and it's by the thinnest of threads of self-restraint, that Bo is able to pull away.

Because Bo loves her. She _loves, _and hasn't that always been the problem? It's her burden… to be Fae, something more than human, but cursed with exquisitely sensitive human emotions that will never allow her to be _completely _selfish, to feel good about taking without giving back. It's that love… that _empathy… _that's separated her from most of the rest, the Dark and the Light. And it's what makes things so much harder, and why she's so damn angry. What's the _point _of having these feelings, when they only lead to heartbreak? When they _always _lead to heartbreak?

The fury that's been driving her is finally exhausted; shame and sadness are only too happy to seep in, in its stead. She feels more drained than Lauren looks - Lauren, with her torn panties and pleading eyes – and dammit, neither of them is innocent. They've both hurt one another, in different ways, and if it keeps going like this nothing will ever change.

Bo steps away slowly, wipes her mouth. She retrieves Lauren's pants from somewhere across the room; she folds them needlessly before bringing them back and handing them over to Lauren – an inadequate apology.

Lauren doesn't seem to trust her legs to hold her - keeps a wary hand on the wall as she tests them. "Can we talk now?" she asks weakly, while she dresses again. Her first hazarded request, and it sounds almost accusing.

Talking. _Communicating. _A novel idea. It's late in the game for it; for _them. _

Bo hopes it's not too late.

She's not sure how much longer Lauren's watchdog will give them, but trusts Trick to break out his best scotch and conversation. She leads Lauren to the chair a few paces away, sits across from her, and takes her hand delicately – the stark contrast between this, and the way she'd touched her just a few minutes before, is not lost on either of them.

"Tell me everything," Bo says. Then, softer: "_Please."_

Lauren sighs. Covers Bo's hand with her own.

They talk.


End file.
